The Fireman's Arms
by woodbyne
Summary: AU. Arthur Kirkland is a reluctant rockstar with an exhibitionist stage persona. Alfred Jones is a fan who doesn't realise that he just met his idol. Under unlikely circumstances they become more than friends, but will Arthur's lies destroy it all?
1. Chemical Catastrophe

**What's wrong with me? I don't even **_**like**_** USUK and here I am **_**writing**_** it! The plot bunnies are rabid. RABID, I TELL YOU!  
>Did you know that I'm terrified of rabbits? <strong>

**185cm translates to 6"2. Please excuse my amateur attempts at lyricism. **

The United Kingdom of Republics. It was an odd name for a band, but the fans didn't seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, they worshiped the leather-clad shock-rockers. And what do most bands use to shock? Sex.

_Gay_ sex.

Even the most liberal of equal-rights activists called the pair exhibitionists and condemned their actions. The words tossed around by the newspaper entertainment pages were hardly complimentary; licentious, base, crass, crude, salubrious, immoral, uncultured. You couldn't play a single one of their songs on the radio without causing a riot.

But like every band that has a bad reputation, they also had a cult following, and a large one at that.

"'The United Kingdom of Republics (The UKR to its fans) will be extending its tour to give the United States the dubious pleasure of listening to their explicit, elicit, Placebo-meets-the-Sex-Pistols punk-rock live. The tour will start in Washington DC on the first of March and end in New York on the 23rd of May'-"

"Alfred, you know I don't listen to that trash. Get to the point," his brother sighed, trying to focus on the sports section of the paper; the Vancouver Canucks had played the Maple Leaves, he had watched the game of course, but he still wanted to read the overview.

"See if I bail you out after the next hockey match," the American snipped, straightening the newsprint with a flick of his wrists and continuing to read, "'In addition to this, the band has announced that one, and only one, lucky American fan will have the privilege of receiving an all-access backstage pass. Matthew, do you know what this means?"

"That your favourite band read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory way too many times?"

"You're just pissy because your team lost. I could meet the UKR!" Alfred jumped up and down excitedly, alternately fist-pumping and playing air-guitar. Matt sat up and leant over the back of the couch so that he could look at his brother over his spectacles. It was the kind of look that disapproving mothers gave their misbehaving toddlers; the look that made the children fear for their lives.

"Al. _Al_. Alfred. _Alfred_! Will you calm down and listen to me? There are hundreds of thousands of UKR fans in the States. There is only one ticket and you are only one person out of legions. You have a one in a million chance of winning a lucky draw. The odds are astronomical."

"One in a million chances happen nine times out of ten," the other sang cheerfully.

"I'm a number-cruncher, Al. You have no chance whatsoever of winning that pass. Go buy yourself a ticket."

"Jesus, Matt. Don't be such a kill-joy," Alfred said, flipping him the bird as he walked to his room singing, "_I'm a bad boy, misbehaving; Another soul not worth saving~!_"

Matthew shook his head and when back to his article.

~====o)0(o====~

"_I put a thousand fathers in the ground; Won't be saved when the saints come 'round. Mother, Father, help me please; Can't see the forest for the trees. Fuck you all to kingdom come; You won't love me when I'm gone! I'm a bad boy, misbehav_-"

"I always knew you were an egotist, but singing along to your own music? That's low, even for you, Francis," a black haired man snapped venomously, using a baby wipe to remove the black makeup around his eyes – which despite his efforts remained smudged and determinedly on his face; the exact consistency of semi-congealed pancake batter and superglue.

"_Our_ music, sweetheart," the Frenchman drawled, leaning back and propping his feet up on the arm of the couch he was presently lounging on.

"Piss-poor excuse for music if you ask me."

"You have the artists eye, darling. It's a perfectly adequate piece of music and you are quite capable of writing a catchy jingle. Even if you are an ungrateful, uncultured, unmannered heathen."

"Better an unmannered heathen than a slovenly whore."

Francis quipped, picking up a glossy and flicking through the pages until he got to a two-page spread of two men in black leather, red and blue strobe lights frozen in the act. They were practically copulating on stage; the slightly shorter man - the one now attempting to remove essence of the Lau Brea tar pits from his face – had his leg hooked around the other's hips and his head thrown back in ecstasy, guitar clutched to his chest. The Frenchman twirled the magazine in his fingers to show his companion the spread,

"You weren't objecting last time. Now go wash that shit out of your hair."

"Fuck you," the other said, flashing the French musician his middle finger as he turned to go.

"Only onstage, darling. You know that."

~====o)0(o====~

There was a two week break before the last leg of the tour, mostly to allow the artists to recuperate and partly to let the crew set up for the grand finale without working themselves into the ground.

A blonde man was sitting in a Starbucks, drinking his tea (the bag was non-biodegradable, but it was silk) in sullen silence. He tapped the nib of his mechanical pencil angrily against the staves in front of him. He had the melody down, but he didn't quite have the lyrics. He needed a hook. . . He hated to use them, but that was what sold, unfortunately.

_Through the explosions can't you see_-

"Hey, Becky!" a voice a couple of hundred decibels above comfortable listening volume assaulted the Englishman's ears, "I need caffeine stat. Today's been a catastrophe."

_Catastrophe_? That was a distinct possibility, but what could it-?

"Sure thing, Alfred, what's up?" the alleged Becky asked, tipping strong black coffee into a cup. The blonde man strained to listen, keeping his eyes firmly fixed ahead of him.

"There was a big fire up at the chemical plant and we had to get that sorted. I've just finished my third straight shift and I'm wiped."

_Through the explosions, can't you see? We're a chemical catastrophe._

The blonde man smirked to himself as he jotted down the words. That was a hook. That was a good hook. That could even be a title. Chemical Catastrophe. There was a definite hit tucked away in there somewhere-

"Hey, man. Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I really need to sit down a minute," the lyrically inclined blonde looked up to see another blonde man sit down on the other side of the dainty glass table.

The stranger had golden blonde hair, a glowing tan and bright, sky-blue eyes that were blinking owlishly behind smudged spectacles. In fact, the man overall was rather grubby looking. He had varying hues of black, brown and grey smeared liberally across his face and forearms – which were bare and well defined. His clothes were in no better shape, and bore signs of having been rolled in dirt.

He stank of smoke.

"I can hardly turn you away now that you've sat down, can I?" the other said. It was most definitely a loaded question.

"Nope- Hey! You're British!"

"And you reek; can we please refrain from pointing out the obvious?"

"Sure. Oh, hey, I forgot to introduce myself; Alfred F Jones. The F is for Fire-fighter," the blue-eyed blonde grinned a Hollywood smile and offered his hand. The other man took it.

"Arthur Kirkland, pleased to meet you," though he quite obviously wasn't.

"Nice to meet you, too, Artie. What instrument do you play?" Alfred smiled sleepily. Arthur frowned, partly in shock and partly because he just hated being called Artie,

"Arthur. Do you start all your conversations like this?"

"You've got sheet music in front of you," the bespectacled blonde said, pointing to the staves which Englishman scrambled to cover, feeling embarrassed and put-on-the-spot. He sighed,

"I play the electric guitar," he admitted grudgingly, shuffling the papers so that a procrastination piece – a gothic remix of Baa-Baa Black Sheep – was on top. It wouldn't do well to have his latest compositions leaked onto the internet by some idiot American who didn't even know who he was dealing with.

"That's awesome, me too! Can't write music for shit though- Whoops, 'scuse my English."

Arthur couldn't hold back a chuckle, "You're excused. But if you had said French, I wouldn't have been able to."

"Hmn? And why not?" Alfred asked, steadily drooping over his half-drunk cup of coffee.

"I have a terrible French acquaintance- Are you alright?" he said as the American snuggled into the pillow he had made with his arms. He looked endearingly childlike, his spectacles half-fallen from his face, his arm pushing his lips into an adorable pout.

Alfred made an affirmative noise, and made a passable attempt at nodding, which mostly ended up as him rubbing his head against his arm like a particularly affectionate cat.

Then he started to snore softly.

Watching his sleeping table-mate warily, he walked up to the cash-register and leaned in, speaking conspiratorially to 'Becky',

"Hello. Er, look, the two of you seemed quite friendly earlier, so I'm going to assume that you're the person to talk to; Alfred has fallen asleep at the table. Is this normal behaviour?"

She giggled and waved a hand at him, "Only when he's been working overtime, which has been a lot lately. You can take him home. Apartment 302, two buildings over. The key is above the door, or his brother will let you in. His room is your second left." The Englishman's formidable eyebrows shot up in surprise,

"What? I don't even know him, I can't take him home! Why did you just tell me his address? I could be a mass murderer for all you know!"

"Alfred is a great judge of character," she said simply, shooing him and turning to the next customer.

Arthur walked back to the table at which the large American was slumped. 185 centimetres tall, well-muscled; this was not going to be easy.

~====o)0(o====~

Arthur Kirkland was no weakling; he was strong and remarkable flexible. But despite his strength, moving a mostly-unconscious fireman who was probably twice his bodyweight in muscle and about ten centimetres taller from point A to point B when point B is up three flights of stairs, was not an easy task.

He lowered Alfred to the (unmade) bed and stood up straight, his hands on his hips, panting lightly, and looked around the messy room.

The walls were plastered with posters. Very familiar posters. Posters with two black haired figures in provocative poses. Posters with a red crest and three letters in stencil script.

U K R

Oh, dear God. He was a fan. Horror sank its icy claws into Arthur's chest. There were UKR t-shirts thrown over chairs, UKR CDs piled next to the battered Walkman. Shaking slightly – he had never really had a brush with the groupies before, although Francis had – he turned to leave, only to let out an embarrassingly high scream.

There, on the back of the door, which had swung shut behind him, was another poster. It was of a man with black hair, thick eyebrows, a nose ring, at least six earrings, studded leather jewellery and a cocky sneer. Celtic green eyes sparkled in a camera flash long since passed, made all the brighter by the excess of artfully smeared eyeliner. He was wearing only a pair of obscenely tight leather trousers, a large, ornate tattoo of a climbing rose up his side and a St George's Cross guitar.

The words _King For President_ were emblazoned in large, red font across the bottom of the poster.

Himself, in all his glory, life-size and laminated.

"Mnhg? 'Rth'r? Wasisit?" Alfred slurred sleepily, face down in his sheets.

"Nothing!" the Englishman squeaked. He slapped himself in the chest, "Nothing, sorry," he repeated, this sudden change in pitch reminiscent of puberty, "Your poster gave me a fright. I thought there was someone else here."

"Mhe? UKR? King fer Prez!" he launched his hand into the air before letting it fall heavily to his side once more, "Mngna get y'coffee tom'ro. Sm time sm place."

**Like it? Love it? Dislike it? Want to curse it and its ancestors until the end of time? I want to hear from you!**

**All lyrics in this chapter are by me (made up band needs made up songs, right?) please don't be mad at me.**

**~RutheLa**


	2. Bad Boy Misbehaving

**Holy crap, guys! What a response!  
>MoMoPocky, The Voices Talk to Me, Sakushiro, RawrGodzirra, Shizuka Aralia, kura-wolfgoddess, Dove of Ages, Tala, KajiMori, bleedingsmirk, Cacow, elle268, eyebox and Chishio chuudoku thank you!<strong>

**Thank you for liking my lyrics. If you (by some miracle) are interested in hearing what the song **Bad Boy Misbehaving** sounds like (vocals only) there is a youtube link on the profile under my bio (which is under Xena's bio), there you can laugh at my terrible singing and the bad sound quality on my webcam. Enjoy! **

**I'm going to break the forth wall for a second early on, but I swear I'll patch it up. **

No one knew their real names and they went through great lengths to keep it that way; no mean feat, as any celebrity will attest.

However, their stage names were world famous. The King and The President. Without their stage makeup and (wash-out) hair-dye, they were unrecognisable. Onstage, they were obscenely close. Offstage, they made obscene gestures at one another. Not that the fans knew that.

And while fans generally supported them dry-fucking in public, they were divided. As is USUK to FrUK and Team Edward to Team Jacob was Francis 'The President' Bonnefoy to Arthur 'The King' Kirkland.

They even had their own cute slogans – which adorned anything from flags, scarves and t-shirts to pillows, mugs and mouse pads – 'President is King' for Francis and 'King for President' for Arthur.

Arthur thought that they were a waste of time, but he thought that about many things; the American tour, their music, their fans, the band itself.

He had long ago lost his love of music. It was a pop-culture machine now, determined to milk him for every note he could muster, and then some.

But none of these musings, however factual, could even begin to explain what he was doing at two-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon, exactly where he had been the day before, with a cross-word puzzle and a cup of tea, trying not to look like he was waiting on a workaholic American fireman whom he didn't know from an apple pie.

But he was, and he did, and Becky, that ever so helpful and surely a little nutso waitress, on seeing this, told him, "He's a bit absent minded, but if he told you he'd be here, then he will. More tea?"

Sure enough, five minutes later and, shamefully, wearing a UKR band shirt, Alfred F Jones came striding through the door, "Hey! Artie! Sorry I'm late, I just woke up," he grinned, showing a lot of very straight, very white enamel. Whomever this man's dentist was, he should be given a medal.

"You're late? Oh, so you are," he made a show of checking his watch. He hated being kept waiting, but this had been a particularly interesting crossword, so the acerbic sarcasm was kept to a minimum. Alfred frowned,

"You don't have to be rude about it," well, perhaps not as minimal as it could be.

"I like punctuality," he said, sipping his tea and raising a formidable eyebrow as if to say, '_Don't you_?'

"Punctuality is key," the American nodded sagely before turning in his seat and yelling, "Hi, Becky! One of the usual and one of whatever he's having!"

"Sure thing, honey!" Becky screamed back cheerfully.

Arthur, slightly deafer for his proximity to the blast, shook his head to clear it, "Are all Americans this loud?"

"Are all Brits this stuffy?" Alfred fired back.

"Stuffy?" the Englishman smirked, "I assure you; I am _anything_ but." Rock star, remember?

The bespectacled blonde leant in, elbows on the table and a wicked grin to match his companion's, "Prove it."

Without thinking, he stuck out his tongue; not childishly thrusting it between his lips, but opening his mouth slowly and stretching it out to show the other man the skull stud that sat at its centre.

He retracted the muscle, pulling into his self-satisfied smile, "Stuffy enough for you?"

"We're flirting," Alfred stated, causing Arthur's grin to drop right off his face.

"Yes, well-quite," he finished lamely, picking up his tea. He had to admit that he was intrigued by the idea of flirting with a fan, and the tension between them was sizzling. Or perhaps that was because Alfred sans dirt and still a little damp from his shower, was wretchedly attractive, "I hope you're not going to be hypocritically homophobic about it."

"Hypocritically?"

The Englishman scoffed, "Your walls are plastered with images of a band synonymous with gay sex; you're even wearing their shirt. You're closeted at the very least." He pointed to the words, red on grey, stretched across Alfred's broad chest, _Citizen of the UKR_.

"I never cared much for closets," he shrugged, focusing on the part of that statement that interested him, "You know the United Kingdom of Republics?"

"_Biblically_," Arthur muttered under his breath, clearing his throat, "Yes, I do."

"Are you a fan?"

"I used to be. Lately I've lost any respect I ever had for them. They aren't making music anymore, they're making hits. Next thing you know they'll be singing lovelorn pop ballads," He sighed. He had once loved making music; he hadn't even minded the act that they put on. But the little act had gone too far. Their stage personas weren't shields anymore, they had become something that one needed to be shielded from.

"Bullshit. Even if they have sold out to the man, their music is what's important, and just because it's a hit doesn't mean that it can't reach people on a personal level. In fact, it's a hit _because_ so many people can relate to it. It has a universal message. Don't you dare lump them in with those stupid pop hit about people having sex and breaking up. They aren't even remotely close to that."

Arthur stared at Alfred, trying to work out whether the American was joking or not. After a minute of careful evaluation, he decided that no, he was not joking.

"They're just a band," he said, slightly confused. It was just music. He knew how little effort went I into some of the songs, he wrote them!

"Do yourself a favour," Alfred said, picking up a serviette and pulling a felt-tip pen from his pocket, writing down a web address, "Visit this site. It's a fanmade tumblr, but it shows how being a part of the UKR community has influenced people for the better. It's not just a band."

Arthur took the napkin and pocketed it. He had helped people? That was a pleasant delusion to suffer under.

"I have one question," the American said narrowing his eyes suspiciously, "King or Prez?"

The other man's wicked smile returned full-force, and he rolled his eyes, "I'm _English_," he said, as though the answer was obvious.

"And?" the fire-fighter demanded.

"God save the King," he said with all the sincerity he could muster.

~====o)0(o====~

"Lemme get this straight," Alfred said, pointing an accusing cake-fork in Arthur's general direction, pausing to swallow the last forkful. They had sat in the Starbucks until seven, at which point they had relocated to an Indian restaurant and had curry – something the American had never tried before, sheepishly admitting to a fast-food diet – rather than going their separate ways. It was now nine-thirty and they had just finished eating desert. Or rather, Alfred had just wolfed down the most enormous piece of black forest gateaux that the Englishman had ever seen. It had been the size of a small whale, "You're telling me that you play the guitar, and that you have done for years, and yet you will neither play nor sing for me?"

"That is correct," Arthur nodded. He didn't want to give the game away by letting the American recognise his voice, though it was probably safe to let himself be talked into playing a riff.

"Pretty please?" Alfred begged, pouting ridiculously. He was a grown man, and really had no business being that adorable. He had a boyish charm in what was most certainly a man's body. Tall, broad shouldered and narrow hipped. The iron-grey shirt he was wearing today was tight over his chest and arms, and his brown leather aviator's jacket was slung over the back of the chair, his relaxed pose rendering him utterly scrumptious.

"No," the Englishman said firmly, then smiled a little, "but, if you let me pay for this, we can call it a date. Then after a few more dates, I might feel more comfortable around you. Perhaps then I could play for you?" he suggested. It was rash, but he really liked Alfred, and he was feeling a little nervous around the other man. And when standing beside him felt like a before and after shot of Captain America, who wouldn't be?

"How about we go Dutch but still call it a date and once you feel more comfortable, you play for me?"

"We have an accord," Arthur smirked, holding out his hand. Alfred took the hand and shook it firmly, his strong hand warm.

Just then a tinny version of the funeral march began to play and the Englishman let out a despairing moan,

"Terribly sorry, I have to take this. Yes, mother, I know what time it is," he snapped, into the receiver, "I don't care. I'm having fun. Go fuck yourself, Francis." He hung up angrily.

Alfred raised his eyebrows, and his glasses slid down his nose, "That's no way to talk to your mother!" he scolded mockingly, a wicked grin on his lips.

"If that man was my mother, I would have turned out a lot worse than I have," he barked a dry laugh, "But he has a point. It's ten o clock. I should get you home before your parents ban us from seeing each other."

That made the American laugh, and he was glad of it.

~====o)0(o====~

"Well, this is me," Alfred said, swinging his arms back and forth as they stood outside his apartment building, almost as though he was nervous, "thanks for going out with me tonight. I had a good time. I, uh," he leant in, and Arthur, who had been momentarily distracted by the arrival of a car, turned back to him just in time to catch the American's fully, slightly chapped lips – which had been aimed at his cheek – with his own.

After a second of frozen surprise, Alfred pulled back, "Sorry! I didn't mean to kiss you! Well, I did, but not on the mouth! Oh God, I'm-" he was silenced as Arthur grabbed his neck and pulled him down into a proper kiss, soft and slow, but still chaste. The Englishman pulled away, smirking.

"Now off with you, before I turn into a pumpkin. I'll see you at the café?"

"You bet!" Alfred agreed dazedly, a dopey grin plastered all over his face.

The rocker watched as his date wended his way inside before slipping into the backseat of the car, the cheer he had felt grim,

"If you tell anyone about this, you will never find work again," he said darkly, causing his impassive driver to nod curtly and drive off.

**OMFG headache O_O. Next chapter will be longer I hope. Sonata is giving me a little trouble, but I'm still working on it. **


	3. Somebody Save Superman

**Whoa. Guys, really? I have never had this kind of response for a story ever. **

**DarkmoonSigel, Sakushiro, kura-wolfgoddess, TheRussianRose, FMB, Dove of Ages, The Voices Talk To Me, KajiMori, Shizuka Aralia, Tala, Chishio chuudoku, Cherrychan88, Cacow, RealityDeamsii, Clozzie, Sara, Darkness Revolution, Crazy-Lil-Yume-Chan, xXxanimespazfreakxXx, snowychann. THANK YOU!**

**Warning: CanKraine. Fluff. Angst. This story is looking to be quite short. **

"Where have you been?" Matthew asked, not looking up from his laptop – he often worked late into the night, but Alfred was usually home early in the evening so that he was rested for his next shift (When Arthur had jokingly cast him as a workaholic, he had been right. Helping people was Alfred's passion, and he liked to be running on all engines when he was at work. And he was at work a lot.)

"On a date," the American gloated, still grinning like an idiot. He spun around with his hands in the air, "I barely know the dude and he kissed me!"

The Canadian spun in his ergonomically designed swivel chair, "You what with who and how much did it cost?"

"Don't go ruining my mood with your dickishness. How does your girlfriend stand you?"

"Katyusha finds me charming and sophisticated," he said a little smugly, noting an error in his calculations and correcting it.

"You mean she thinks that it's cute how you say 'eh' and 'aboot'?" Matthew glared at his brother peevishly,

"You know I don't do that, eh!" Alfred laughed. Matt generally didn't slip into any of his little Canadianisms unless he was flustered. And he always got flustered when confronted about his Canadianisms. It was a cruel form of fun, but fun none the less. He spun again, tripping over the arm of the couch and landing sprawled in its cushions, giggling breathlessly.

"Some date?"

"Some date!" he agreed, "His name is Arthur, and he's British, and he plays the guitar. He even writes his own music!" the American enthused, a dreamy look on his face.

"That sounds dangerously like the lead singer of that band you're obsessed with," Matt cautioned, turning back to his numbers, fingers dancing across the keyboard.

"Nah, Artie's blond. King has black hair," Al dismissed the suggestion, "Besides, what are the odds?"

"20 to one," Matt answered promptly, and his brother rolled his eyes.

"Turn of phrase, Mattie. I don't actually want to know what the odds are," he teased.

"I'm being serious. If you take the number of tourists in the city this time of year, and then factor in how many of them are British, subtracting the ratio of people who only have an average level of musical skill then-"

"'_You are killing my buzz, Edward_!'" Alfred shrieked in his best falsetto voice, pouting ridiculously and folding his arms sulkily over his chest. Matthew was torn, caught somewhere between falling about laughing at his brother's antics and punching him in the face for bringing up that he had read the entire series (on Katyusha's insistence) purely for the sake of sex.

But then again, Alfred supposed if he was straight and his girlfriend had breasts that big. . .

"Look," the Canadian sighed, rubbing his eyes, "All I'm saying is; don't compare the two, and don't get too attached. He's on vacation, right?"

Alfred nodded despondently, as if he were a child told that he couldn't have a puppy.

"How long have you known him, anyway?" Matt asked, suspecting another one of his brother's whirl-wind romances (they never lasted long, but the blue-eyed blonde was always devastated when they ended, and to be frank it was a bit annoying to live with).

"Oh, I met him yesterday," Alfred chirped happily, "he took me home."

Through a grievous (and fortuitous) lack of foresight, Matthew wasn't drinking anything and was therefore unable to spit non-specified liquid all over his rather expensive laptop as a means of expressing his shock. As it was, the best he could do was stare, wide-eyed at Alfred, his jaw hanging slack and his vocal chords – unable to turn any of his thoughts into a coherent sentence – making noises like a bull frog stuck in an ice-maker.

"Mattie? Dude, what's wrong?" Alfred frowned. It kind of looked like that one time Matt had eaten shellfish and gone into anaphylactic shock. But unless there was some new breed of shellfish that had wind-born spores (in which case the world was fucked) that was impossible.

"He took- You had sex with a complete stranger? Are you _insane_, Alfred? " It wasn't exactly yelling, but he was speaking quite loudly. The one time Matthew had _actually_ shouted at him, Alfred had been sure that he was going to become a victim of fratricide, "Do you have any idea how many STDs you might have contracted? You-"

"You think I tapped that? God, no! I only just met the dude yesterday! Matt, when I said that he took me home, I meant it literally. I fell asleep at the café Hetalia and he brought me home. I got him tea to make up for it – he doesn't drink coffee, how cute is that? – and it sort of turned into a date."

The Canadian brother blinked, digesting the information, "That seems innocuous enough."

"Innocuous? Jesus, Matthew, I'm a grown man, I don't need you to vet the people I date!"

"Did I ask you to back-sass me? No," the systems analyst said, putting on his best mummsy voice, "Now go to your room and think about what you've done!"

It worked, the sparks of an argument-to be were smothered in brotherly camaraderie and fraternal laughter.

~====o)0(o====~

"Where have you been?" Francis demanded angrily the second Arthur walked through the door, "I've been calling you all day and the one time you do pick up you tell me to fuck off! You missed practise today and rehearsal, the sound and lighting team are having fits!"

"Bugger the sound and lighting team, Francis, I'm a tourist, I wandered around New York," he (partially) lied, walking past the Frenchman without sparing him a glance. That was until a hand shot out and dragged him back a few steps,

"Arthur," he said sadly, "When did we stop being friends?"

"You know _exactly_ when," the Englishman snapped, jerking his arm out of the Frenchman's grip. He stalked past Francis to his room, slamming the door behind him. He didn't have to see the nonchalant shrug to know that Francis was doing it.

He sighed deeply, pulling out a laptop and connecting to the hotel's wifi. He pulled the carefully folded serviette from his pocket and entered the URL.

Fuck yeah UKR. How desperately original.

_Anonymous_:

_I was in a really dark place in my life when I got into UKR. At first I thought that it was just sad music to go with a sad time, but when I was looking up lyrics, I found forums full of people who were going through similar situations and it helped me realise that I'm not alone. Thank you, UKR._

There were hundreds of anonymous posts, and many of them said similar things, thanking a band for helping them get up the courage to come out to their family, to confront a bad friend, for showing them that they were not alone. There were even a few posts about couples who had come together through the music. He shook his head smiling indulgently. He hadn't done any of this and neither had Francis. This was their own doing; the fans had done it all themselves.

Then it caught his eye. Partly because the icon was a tiny star-spangled banner flapping in a stiff, computer-generated breeze. But mainly because the user who posted it was one of the few people who signed in to post; _F-Is-For-Fireman_

"_Oh, hey, I forgot to introduce myself; Alfred F Jones. The F is for Fire-fighter."_

Arthur had never believed in coincidences.

_When I came out to my dad, he kicked me out of the house. I lost all confidence in myself and the potential I have. I moved to the city and I didn't talk to my family for two years. On my 22__nd__ birthday, my brother sent me their album, "Fuck The World Up The Arse". He never even listened to the music, he just saw the title and sent it to me. We're roommates now, and I still haven't spoken to my father, but I'm happy. My brother says he hates the UKR, but sometimes I catch him singing one of their songs. Thank you, UKR, for helping me find my self-respect and giving me back my family._

"_I never cared much for closets."_

The Englishman smiled tiredly, checking the clock in the corner of the screen; three am. Maybe he could take credit for that case. He rather wanted to. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he turned the computer off, stripped off and went to bed.

¬====o)0(o====¬

"So what you're saying is that – Aw, shit!" Alfred swore as his pager went off, "It's the station; I've got to go."

It was amazing, Arthur thought, pecking Alfred on the lips as the other got up, just how much could happen in a week and a half. Two weeks ago he had been and angsty rock star and a grumpy person in general. Now his grumblings were for the most part playful, and Alfred didn't seem to mind them in the slightest. Becky called them Double A, and knew Arthur's order by heart. She thought they were cute.

"Go save the world, Superman," he said, the mocking expression on his face belayed by the affectionate squeeze he gave the big, calloused hand.

"I'll be home before dinner, Lois," he returned the pressure, "Tell you what, come with me, then we can go get something to eat."

"You know I hate it when you smell like smoke, right?"

"But I smell like a man, and you haven't got a problem with that." It was true that he didn't. He was ashamedly fond of the way Alfred would pitch up at the café and hug him, still stinking of smoke, sweat and musk. It felt safe, if that made any sense at all. It was beginning to dawn on Arthur that the silly, cheerful American was turning his life completely upside down. He hadn't attended practise or rehearsal all week. The very idea of dancing with Francis on stage was utterly repulsive, whereas it had only been unappealing before.

"Fine. Just not Maccers," Arthur conceded, And Alfred grudgingly agreed, much though he loved the refined, processed, vomit-worthily unhealthy foods.

~====o)0(o====~

The Chief had told Alfred to meet him at the scene and get suited up in the van, which was exactly what he did. Just as the two pulled up at the address of the fire, the stream of thick, black smoke billowed from the top of an apartment building. There was an almighty crack and flames roared into the evening sky.

"Fucker!" the American swore. He swung off his jacket, worn brown leather with a sheepskin collar, and dropped it over Arthur's shoulder's halfway out of the door, "Stay here and keep this warm for me."

"Be careful," the Englishman whispered, rubbing the soft leather of the lapel between his thumb and index finger. The jacket smelt faintly of smoke, and faintly of burger, but mostly of Alfred. He watched as the American sprinted to the red truck, and less than two minutes later was jogging fearlessly towards the blaze. His blue-suited brethren doing the same, a few staggering out of the building with bodies in their arms, and the Englishman realised in horror that they hadn't finished clearing the building before the explosion.

"Please, be careful," he repeated, a melancholy melody beginning to write itself in his mind. No, that should be F sharp. . . The song played out like a desperate soundtrack to the fire. He couldn't tell which of the blue figures was Alfred as they dashed helter-skelter through the smoke

A single figure staggered through the smoke towards him, a smaller figure in its arms. A little girl. Shrugging out of his jacket and helmet, the fier-fighter, Alfred, laid her down on the dull, heavy-duty blue fabric.

"Help!" he called to the others, only a few paces off, "She's not breathing!"

"CPR!" Someone called back, "We haven't got a medic spare!"

Growling, the American put his hands to the slim chest, she couldn't have been older than eight, and began pressing,

"Come on, darling," he muttered, "stay with me!" Pulling a packet open with his teeth, he shoved something g between her lips and blew into it before resuming the compressions. "Please! Come on, sweetie, stay with me!"

She was already dead. Arthur could tell that. He didn't know when he had gotten out of the car, all he knew was that he was standing at the other blonde's shoulder as a passing medic called the time of death and put a blanket around the American's shuddering body.

"It's alright, lad, you stay with me. We're going to get you home. Just keep listening to me, Alfred. You're going to be fine," he said, hauling him to his feet and pulling him back towards the car.

Alfred's blue gaze was fixed at a point in the distance through the windscreen as Arthur talked, joked, anything; desperately trying to coax a response from the frozen fireman.

"I have no idea how to work your bloody car. You just had to drive a Dodge, didn't you? Bloody American deign," he grumbled, putting it in reverse and heading off. "This isn't a car, this is a tank!"

He drove slowly, afraid to be caught without his licence. Pulling over on a shoulder, he opened the door, "I'll be right back, I've just got to fetch something."

Instead of wondering what the hell it was Arthur was doing, why he was still wearing his jacket and why the holy hell he was letting the Englishman drive his car, which he obviously didn't appreciate, he simply stared.

He had lost her. He hated when he lost someone, and he especially hated losing a child. There had to be more that he could have done. But he hadn't, and now there was a family with an empty place. A life that wouldn't be lived. A soul that would never find it's other half. Tears tracked their way through the soot and grime that darkened his skin. He had lost her, and that was all that mattered.

He was wracked with sobs by the time Arthur got back to the car.

"There, there, love," he murmured, the silly endearment slipping out, "It's not your fault. There's nothing you could have done. Here, eat this, you'll feel better once you've got something in you."

Sniffling unbecomingly and wiping his eyes on the back of his hand, he took the brown paper packet.

Alfred stared uncomprehendingly at the stiff, rough paper with its universally recognised red and yellow logo.

"I thought you said-" he began, thoroughly confused, only to be cut off by Arthur's good-natured grumblings,

"Just eat your gift horse and stop checking its teeth," he said, flicking the indicator on and re-joining the stream of traffic.

After the burgers (Arthur had learnt early on that his American sweetheart could pack it away)were gone, Alfred rested his head against the seat.

"Artie?"

"Yes," he drew the one syllable out into three, wary of Alfred's tone of voice.

"Do you drink?"

"Yes," he said in the same tone. No he didn't and there was a reason for it, too.

"Can you hold your booze?"

"I suppose," no, he couldn't. That was the reason.

"Will you go drinking with me?"

Who was he to deny that face?

**Well, I hope you enjoy that. Also, Arthur and Alfred getting wasted next chapter. Who's looking forward to it? **

**Also, I have accidentally switched my laptop to UK keyboard layout, and I hate it. How do I change it back?**

**As was pointed out, I'm fairly good at writing USUK, even though half the time I kind of want to scream every time I see fan art for it. PLEASE EXPLAIN THIS PHENOMENON?**

**Love you all, my readers.**

**RutheLa**


	4. Babe, I Like The Way You Feel

**Tala, Shizuka Aralia, kitkit11183, Person, Mesmerise Bulls, SaraBarns, Pherse Issac, Teenage Mouse, ycart, Cacow. You are wonderful people. **

**This one goes out to Arthur Kirkland, on facebook, who posted** ((One in a million chances happen nine times out of ten)) **on their wall. Sweetheart, I think you made my year. I hope this update is fast enough. Also, Batshitcrazy, if you're reading this; this wouldn't be possible without you, whether you know it or not.**

**Arthur = Gavin Cavanaugh (The Boat That Rocked). Just for one line.**

It was rather unfortunate for Arthur that Alfred, being of larger build and faster metabolism, could hold his booze. However, he also started with a Long Island Iced Tea and jumped to straight spirits immediately after.

And then he started mixing his drinks. Tequila, Vodka, Whiskey.

While the bartender watched in horror, Arthur slurred, leaning against the sticky polished wood, managing to spill two fingers of single malt all over himself. However, whatever she may have felt watching the Englishman's drunken ramblings was nothing compared to what she felt watching Alfred. The American had shed his shirt, revealing an impressive upper body. One that would have been enviable had it not been a mess of skin grafts. He was laughing uproariously, knocking back shots, one heavy arm throw around Arthur.

"Hey! Artie!" he crowed, "Less play barstool!"

"Wha?" the other asked hazily, "Wa's barstool?"

"C'mere. Whatcha do is I stan like this," he raised his leg at a right angle, "You sit on mah leg an then sum'un times it."

"A'rite," he said, tearing his eyes with difficulty from Alfred's strong thighs and the way his jeans creased over his crotch.

"Miss?" the American waved at the bartender, "Time us, wouldja?" she gave an exasperated nod and checked her watch.

"Okay, go," she said and Arthur scrambled clumsily onto that firm thigh, unable to stop himself wondering what it would feel like without those heavy-duty jeans in the way, would there be scars there, too?

Alfred lasted a minute, letting the Englishman down surprisingly slowly for all his inebriated state.

"Whoo!" he cheered, throwing his hands in the air, making the other patrons of the bar give him filthy looks.

"Gentlemen, can I call you a ride home?" the bartender asked quietly, hoping not to draw any more attention to the pair than Alfred already was.

"Nah! W'r not goin home!" he roared happily, his t-shirt halfway back over his shoulders, "Artie, babe, less go singin!"

Uh-oh.

That was a bad idea, and even through his drink-fogged stupor, Arthur knew that much.

But he was drunk. And so was Alfred, and really, what were the odds of him being recognised as the lead singer of a band that nobody even liked? His hair was the wrong colour, he wasn't wearing the stage make up, and he wasn't wearing any second-skin leather. He really hated leather pants, to be honest. They stuck like cling-wrap and they needed an arse-ton of talcum powder to stop them pinching and chaffing.

So what was the harm in a little warbling?

They weren't exactly going to be famous last words, but should shit come into contact with any kind of fan, this was a moment that could be put up on a class-room projector, have an authoritative professor poke it with one of those long teacher's sticks that you only ever see in films and say,

"_This is where things went wrong."_

~====o)0(o====~

The karaoke bar was seedy. It had cigarette smoke and liquor staining the walls, and a few other things that the health department would be horrified to know could even reach that high on a vertical surface. It was also packed, through only a few people were actually singing despite the contest going on. Most of the crowd, and it was a tough crowd, judging by the way they booed off a busty woman with too much foundation on, was acting as the judge.

"C'mon, Artie! Let's sign ourselves up!" They had stopped over at another pair of golden arches on the way, and Alfred was remarkably more sober for it. Together they wound their way to a man who looked like he was in charge. He also looked like he'd had a nip of brandy, but hey, they did too.

"What do you want?" the portly man asked, as though the rest of his patrons weren't just as – if not more – hammered than the pair before him.

"We want to sign up for your competition," the American said cheerily, leaning on a countertop that was probably carrying Cholera, Ebola, Typhoid, Tuberculosis, Chlamydia, and H1N1.

"No pairs," he grunted. If there is a hell for those who give bad customer service then Beelzebub had a devil set aside for that man right there, in his grease-stained wife-beater.

"Aww," Alfred whined, looking thoroughly put out.

"Can I have him onstage if he's not singing? I need a prop," Arthur suggested suddenly. The scheme he was forming was hair-brained. It had a healthy crop of hair, sideburns, a moustache, a beard, and a formidable set of eyebrows.

"Spose," another grunt. The man picked up a book and a pencil, handing them over. Once Arthur had jotted down his name and Alfred his, they had to pick songs.

While the bespectacled blonde selected something the Englishman had never hear of; Lowlife by Kidd Rock, he went straight for what he knew. Flipping to the back of the file full of song titles, he jotted down the number of one of his favourites. It was one he had written back when he enjoyed making music.

Alfred went first, grinning.

Once he was onstage, he lifted the microphone, tapped it twice and waited for the music. It was a slow start, with guitar and bass.

"_I got my Cat-Scratch Fever eight-track, my best friend's in a comeback; I'm a lowlife_," he crooned huskily, tapping his foot to the beat. It was a rocking tune, and the bar seemed to like it, occasionally chipping in to help Alfred along with the repetition of "Lowlife."

Soon though, it was Arthur's turn, and he swaggered on through the throngs of people and up onto the stage, his 'King' persona taking over, leaving no room for stage-fright, logic or reason. Taking the microphone from the slightly confused American, he leered at the murmuring crowd,

"Are you a citizen of the UKR?"

There was a smattering of applause and a few whistles. Not the most responsive audience he'd ever had, but push was coming to shove, and it would have to do.

The music began, fast and up-beat. Tossing a vicious smirk at the confused American, he purred into the microphone,

"Alfie, babe, come over here," he winked. Alfred's face glowed red with a mixture of lust and drink, and he walked forward numbly, as though in shock. This wasn't the Arthur he knew.

"_Time is gone; It's half past three; But I like the way you feel, baby_," he began huskily, grabbing hold of the American's collar and yanking him forward roughly.

"Arthur, what the fuck are you-" he hissed, only to be shut up with a wink and a finger to his lips,

"_Kiss me here_," he touched his own throat, turning so that the audience could see his movement, "_Touch you there_," he ran his fingers slowly over Alfred's chest, making him shudder. He moved a hand up to his hair, resting a knee on his hip and pulling himself up, "_Run my fingers through your hair!"_

The fire-fighter felt the moisture leave his mouth. He couldn't swallow. His face was brick red. And it only got worse when the leg at his side moved to hook around his hips and the other leg did the same. There must have been an unholy strength in his thighs to keep Arthur from falling as he leant slowly backwards to face the audience, his shirt riding up around his ribcage.

"_Let's get out of this place and back to mine; We can stop by yours next time; Too drunk to know if this is real; But babe, I like the way you feel_!" he half sang, half groaned. He could _feel_ Alfred between his hips. And he liked it. He couldn't see the calloused palms as they moved up his thighs and over his stomach to caress the rose tattoo that climbed up his side before racking back down again, but he could _feel_ them.

"I_n the morning; No regrets_," his voice was throbbing through Alfred's whole body, numbing and exciting like some illicit drug. Who knew Artie could sing like this? Fuck if it wasn't hot!

He pulled himself upright and swung himself around so that he was on the American's other side, "_Unzip me_," he tugged at his own trousers, "_Unzip you_," he tweaked the fly of Alfred's jeans, "_**Really**__ don't mind if I do,_" he winked at the stunned looking crowd and gave the stiff front of the American's pants a lingering squeeze.

Alfred's mouth popped open into an 'O' of surprise, and if his face hadn't been red before it was now, his eyes heavy lidded and misty. He pulled his lips back together, biting the bottom one softly. Slowly turning his head to look at the singing, undulating Englishman on his hip, he raised an eyebrow challengingly.

"_Let's have a party; You and me, Cause I like the way you feel, baby_," Arthur smirked right back at him with another roll of his hips, snapping his teeth playfully.

Oh God.

Leaving the bar was a bit of a blur. Whether they were kicked out (very likely) or lauded as winners (also quite likely) neither of them could remember.

It was about five am when they got back to Alfred's apartment. They were still a little drunk but not as drunk as they had been, Alfred having just recovered and Arthur having burned it off with his dance routine. Which had been a fucking stupid idea. That was the exact same one that he always used with that song on stage.

They fell against the door, laughing uncontrollably and talking far too loudly. It took them ten minutes to figure out that neither of them could even get the key in the lock, at which they laughed some more. Then they figured out that Matthew had left the door open.

When one is drunk, things are a lot funnier than they ought to be. You will find yourself to be witty and entertaining. But you aren't. Any emotions you feel are magnified and chances are that you're not going to remember more than a few minutes of the night before when you wake up with a hangover the next morning. But back to the amplified emotions.

Now that Alfred's alcoholic high was swinging its way down, the emotions he had been trying to forget were coming back to him in waves of shame and worthlessness.

"Arthur," he asked blearily, staggering through the doorway of his room, "Why'd she have to die?"

"Who?" the Englishman asked, his voice a little raspy

"That girl. I should have saved her. She was so small."

"Hush, love, it was meant to happen. Nobody could have done more," he purred, stroking his hair, "If anyone could have saved her, it would have been you, but there was nothing you could do."

"I felt her heart stop beating under my hands!" he tilted his head back, groaning in pain, "I fucking hate drinking! It just makes it worse!"

Arthur's fingers slid slowly down the arched neck, across the sticky, sweaty fabric of his shirt, feeling the raised welt wear graft met graft and the smoothness where flames had seared his skin. Alfred shivered pleasurably; his mind was still tumbling over itself but his body reacting to the touch none the less.

"I can make you forget more than whiskey, love," he said, leaning in and nipping at the curve of a collar bone that peeked through the neck of his shirt.

"I don't think I'm drunk enough for tha-" he was silenced by the Englishman's lips moving over his, the thin, calloused fingers slipping over his skin with light, teasing touches.

"Mhph!" the American pulled back from the kiss, "Kay, fine. Maybe I am." He pulled his own shirt clumsily over his head before tugging at the other's. Arthur complied, his arms heavy as he wrested out of the constricting fabric. Alfred's hands came up, running over the pale skin of his sides, the strong, wiry muscles that were there. His fingers ghosted inaccurately over the tattoo, trying to map it but not quite possessing the co-ordination to do so.

"You must have been a really big fan."

"The biggest."

"Make me forget this, Artie," he half whimpered half pleaded as Arthur rolled their hips together, "Make me forget," he pulled the other down roughly. The kiss was unrefined and sloppy, and there was way too much tooth. The kisses moved to his neck, and then to his shoulder, lips brushing the last bloom on the vine.

The pain of being penetrated was dulled by the booze, but it still hurt, and his teeth clamped down on the skin beneath his lips. The sudden pain made Arthur's body jerk, and Alfred bit down all the harder for it, a mauve bite mark already blooming in the dawn light.

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew was still in bed being grumpy – he liked to sleep in seeing as he worked from home, and being woken up by his drunken brother and some shrieking Brit in the small hours of the morning was not something he had counted on being a variable.

It was therefore up to Katyusha to answer the door when it was knocked on at precisely eight am by a very official, uniformed delivery man,

"Hello, Ma'am," he said, speaking at her chest, "I have a package for Alfred F Jones. Is he here? He needs to sign for in person."

"Of course," she smiled, leaving the door open and sticking her head into Alfred's room, "Alfie, good morning! You have to sign for something~!" she sang cheerily. One arm flopped over the side of the bed and dragged the American bulk it was attached to out of the covers and onto the floor. He was covered in bodily fluids, at least half of which were still sticky and definitely not his own. His jeans were shoved down around his knees and as he wriggled around on the floor trying to pull them back up, a wave of nausea rolled over him. Groaning, but feeling no actual need to throw up, he stood unsteadily, fly undone, and glasses off. One hand on the wall for support, he grabbed at the clipboard, scribbled his signature all over it and picked up the small, brown paper package, It even had string on it.

"Thanks, man. Fuck off," he slurred, the alcohol not having entirely left his system. Blearily squinting at the writing on the paper.

To: Alfred F Jones  
>From: The UKR<p>

**As always, the implied smuttishness was kind of necessary, and important. Unless you read Papa. That was totally unnecessary. Please review. It makes my day ^^**


	5. Through The Darkness In The Crowd

**Dear readers, when you find the person whoputs a stupid smile on your face that just will not come off, I hope you have the good fortune to find them single, and the good sense never to let them go. **

**Mesmerize Bulls, Brixland, Cpt. Sitax, Chishio chuudoku, Captain Arthur Kirkland, Iggyy, SaraBarns, Pherse Issac, In The Mix, ycart, blackcat, RealityDreamsii, Teenage Mouse, The Voices Talk to Me, Tala, Prussie, bleedingsmirk, kura-wolfgoddess and Darkness revolution. 19 reviews! What a response! I love you!**

It took Alfred all day, three cups of black coffee, four paracetamol and Matt-didn't-know-how-many plates of disgustingly greasy bacon and eggs to get over his hangover. In this time, Katyusha had met Arthur (though giving the Englishman the fright of his life by walking in on him changing was probably not quite the same thing as 'meeting' him) and had the awkward, 'what are your intentions with my brother?' talk with Matthew.

That had been kind of unpleasant.

"So. You're from England. When are you going back?" he had asked a little stiffly.

"In two days' time," Arthur had replied, his head pressed firmly into his arms so that he wouldn't have to look at the bright light of the kitchen.

"And you really think last night was a good idea?"

"I have no idea," he answered truthfully. He really, really liked Alfred. If they didn't live on opposite sides of the Atlantic-fucking-ocean, and if Alfred had any idea who he was, he might consider having a relationship with him.

Well, perhaps not, he thought, as Matthew pursed his lips at the dreadfully hung-over Brit, if Alfred knew who he was, it would probably change his entire perception of him as a person and he would no longer be 'Artie' (that stupid nickname was growing on him) but 'King.' And that wasn't really who he wanted to be for the rest of his life. Or for very much longer, actually. The longer he spent in the company of the presence of the impulsive American, the less he liked the idea of who he was on stage. The man was like a moral I-beam, rigid and unbending in his idea of good. It was what made him such a good fire-fighter.

And here he was being given the third degree by his brother, and was almost tempted to say,

"He's a grown man, leave me alone!" but that probably would have ended badly. Michael really was just concerned for his brother's safety. He had a soft heart; they both did.

Alfred had gone back to sleep after his meal, and Arthur took that as an opportunity to excuse himself. As much as he hated to do so, he should probably go practise the routine. It wasn't that he didn't know it by heart, but it was important to practise all the same. And he had been avoiding it all week. The very thought of grinding up against Francis now was enough to turn his stomach. Especially after last night.

Not that that had been the best sex of his life. But they had been both been drunk and in between memories of gasping and panting, there had been the potential for great sex.

~====o)0(o====~

Once Alfred had hauled himself out of bed, headache gone but still dog tired, he remembered the package. Totally ignoring the earful he was getting from his brother, he picked up the small, flat rectangle box. The emblem of the UKR was stamped in red ink on the paper. With shaking fingers, he undid the string, letting it fall to his lap. Then he undid the paper, careful not to tear it.

A thin, white envelope fell out hand he picked it up, using the novelty hockey-stick letter-opener he had given Matt the year before. He read the letter over carefully. Then he read it again. And again. And then a fourth time, his lips slowly, silently forming the words as he read them, as if that would make the information more real.

"Alfred, for God's sake, you're not as stupid as I say you are. What's taking so long?" Matthew snapped leaning over his shoulder.

"The pass, Mattie. The pass. I've won it!" he whispered, his voice shaking.

There was a protracted silence in which Alfred could do nothing more than stare, teary-eyed at the laminated plastic with his name and photograph on it.

"Fuck!" Matt cursed, storming over to his laptop and typing furiously.

"What?"

"This throws all my calculations off! I'm going to have to re-work the whole equation!"

~====o)0(o====~

It was the times when his mobile phone rang when he was hanging off of someone with really sod all keeping him up that he was most grateful that he had been doing gymnastics since the age of three. He was also grudgingly grateful that Francis was an instinctive dancer with natural rhythm, but he was never going to admit to that.

He was less grateful of his band-mate's obsessive, perfectionist nature and insistence that not only did they need to drills late into the night, but no interruption was serious enough to constitute stopping in mid routine. This meant that his attention was divided between his phone conversation with Alfred and keeping his balance and keeping in step with Francis.

"Kirkland speaking, how may I help you?" he asked, hooking a leg around Francis' so that the Frenchman's chest was pressed flush against his back, leaning back.

"Artie! " a cheerful, tinny American yelled from the speaker, "You're never going to guess what!"

"Your brother isn't going to kill me?" he guessed wildly, grinding his hips back against the man behind him.

"Nah, I think Matt's still on a murderous rampage. Speaking of. . . Thanks for last night. I'd like to do that again sometime. Only without the depression and alcohol."

"That would be nice," Arthur couldn't help the colour rising to his cheeks as he remembered (what little he could) of the night before, "Maybe next time, you can help me forget, yeah?" _Forget that I'm not who you think I am_. Spinning away, he kicked a leg up and onto the Frenchman's shoulder, pulling him down. Francis bent with it, pushing the Englishman down into a low dip. With a little effort, he moved so that he was seated on the elder man's broad shoulder and air-guitar'd for a minute.

"I'd like that. Artie, you're breathing a little heavily. You're not. . . ?" he could practically _hear_ his blush.

_Grinding up against someone who isn't you? Yeah, I am._ "Just thinking of you," he said teasingly, sliding down Francis' back, one hand caressing his cheek, shoulder holding the phone to his ear as he ran the other hand down his own chest. Francis spun, seizing his hips and pulling Arthur hard against him. The Englishman arched his spine as the Frenchman's hand followed the path his own had just travelled.

"Ah, wow. That's hot. Ah! You're distracting me! I just wanted to tell you that I won the backstage pass to see the UKR!"

"Really? That's smashing!" Francis' hand was resting over his crotch now and they were moving their hips in tandem with each other. Of course, he had arranged the whole thing. If he managed to get his courage up after the show, he would tell Alfred who he was.

"I wish you could come with me," the American sighed.

"I'll be there in spirit," he placated, gasping a little as Francis grabbed his shoulder and spun him, "I have to go now, but I'll call you later," he promised, hanging up.

"Who's your paramour?" the Frenchman asked, arching an eyebrow as he squeezed Arthur, who wrapped a leg around his waist in response,

"None of your Goddamn business," he snapped, hooking his other leg up, leaning backwards, hanging from Francis the same way he had hung from Alfred. Only with fewer romantic stirrings.

However, it couldn't be denied that they usually got hard during a show. It was practically impossible to avoid. Even if Francis was allegedly straight. There had been a handful of occasions where they had both been so sexually frustrated when they got offstage that they found the nearest wall and fucked against it. It was always hard and rough and whomever finished first got up and left the other to deal with themselves. But it was hate-sex, and it barely ever happened. Usually they just went to their separate dressing rooms to masturbate.

"Yes it is. That's where you've been all week," was the peeved answered, "He's effecting our performance."

"You were just the same," Arthur said coldly, "You were going to break us up!"

"And do you remember what you did to her, cher?" Francis responded with equal chill in his voice, "It's been two years and she still won't answer my calls!"

"You still call her after two years?"

"I was going to propose! And you made me out to be the worst pervert on the planet, Arthur. She doesn't even pick up when I call, won't even hear me out."

"Now you're famous. You can have any woman you want!" Arthur yelled, grabbing the other's belt loops and dragging him forward until they were chest-to-chest.

"I don't want any woman, I want Jeanne!" he yelled back. Taking a steadying breath, Francis ran a finger up his chest, resting it over the prominent red and purple bruise on the Englishman's chest, "You burnt me, cher," he said softly, pressing down hard on the mark Alfred's canine had left, "I have been waiting for this. It's my turn to burn you. After this, it's over."

~====o)0(o====~

"You'll write? Or call? Or whatever it is that you do in England?" Alfred asked hopefully as he helped the driver load Arthur's (fake) luggage into the yellow taxi. The air was heavy and hazy. The evening promised to be fresh and clear though, which was perfect for the concert.

"I'll call," the Englishman promised, smiling indulgently.

Alfred looked relieved, and he felt a pang of guilt for deceiving him like this.

"Great! I still don't see why I can't go to the airport with you, though," he pouted childishly, and Arthur was struck once more by just how adorable he could be.

"I hate long goodbyes," he said, touching his cheek and kissing those jutting lips, "But it's not forever," he assuaged as he climbed into the cab, which smelt kind of like feet.

He watched out of the window, and then the rear-view mirror as Alfred became nothing but a waving smudge of colour against the dreary grey of the street.

~====o)0(o====~

If there had been the time to swear profusely, then he would have, but there wasn't. He had only just woken up and he only had twenty minutes to get on stage. Fuck Francis and his vengeance! Rushing to where the little makeup studio was, he jammed himself into a chair, humming to warm-up his vocal chords as he grabbed an eyeliner pencil and started applying it.

Ten minutes later, his hair was sprayed a thorough and optimistic 'Ebony' and he was eyeing the pair of leather pants on the rack with severe distaste. A scowl curling his upper lip, he pulled them down and regarded them. With a sigh; he had five minutes to lace these things up and buckle his boots, he tugged them on.

"You're almost late," Francis purred when he stomped up to him .

"Go suck cock, Frog," Arthur spat, taking a deep breath and pasting a vicious smirk on his lips before swaggering onto the stage. Screams greeted his arrival. Thousands of voices lifted to chant 'King! King! King!' But he soon picked out the fan he was looking for; Alfred was seated just a few metres back from the stage in a slightly raised box that had the letters VIP printed on the back. The American was smiling dazedly, yelling along with the rest of the crowd.

Strutting over to the front of the stage, he put a leg up onto the lip, leaning forward on his knee.

"Loyal citizens of the UKR," he purred, "My subjects. Welcome!"

There was a chuckle from behind him, announcing Francis' arrival. A hand reached around his neck and caressed it,

"Of course, ma cher, we all know what we do with monarchs where I'm from, non?" The Frenchamn teased, and the fans roared their approval.

"Please," Arthur scoffed, "That wasn't what you were saying last night," there was another chorus of shrieks. The lights went out. The concert began.

~====o)0(o====~

Alfred F Jones could be dense. Alfred F Jones could be oblivious, but one thing he certainly wasn't, was stupid.

Those eyes. That voice. Those eyebrows. That tattoo. The dancing. Those things he was perfectly willing to store under _coincidental_ if Arthur told him to. But the one thing he could not ignore, his eyes growing wide as he put two and two together, finding the answer to be four even though he desperately wished it wasn't, was that bruise. The bite-mark low on his shoulder, high on his uncovered chest. The mark he had made when Arthur thrust into him. It was in the exact same place.

Arthur 'King' Kirkland looked over at his special guest, at the look of understanding and horror on his face, and his own face fell.

_Fuck_.

**Long-time readers know how I love a cliffhanger. **


	6. I Want To Go Back To The Fireman's Arms

**I now know why I write USUK when it makes me want to cross myself. 1. It's the reviews. I'm a review whore. 2. My dear Woodbyne, whose account I have usurped, loves it. It's like paying rent. 3. I speak the exact same way Arthur does, down to saying 'arse,' 'bugger', and 'righto' in a supposedly English accent.**

**01blackcat02, SaraBarns, Pherse Issac, RainbowJapan, TheRussianRose, Mesmerize Bulls, (the person with no name?), Me Plus Myself, Horribibble, Amorcaucusest, Shizuka Aralia, Rawr Godzirra, lotrcrazygirl, Mademoiselle K.G, Tala, AsH-animeX2, Darkness Revolution, Reality Dreamsii, Captain Arthur Kirkland, kanoe3, eyebox, Cpt. Sitax, ficfan3484, kitkit11183 NS Commodore Crumpet. Holy shit sticks, guys! 25 reviews? For ONE chapter? I love you.**

Alfred was sitting in Arthur's dressing room, drawing idle swirls onto a serviette with the black eyeliner that not three hours earlier, the Englishman had applied to his face. His hands were shaking and he was taking deep breaths. The American's face was a study in controlled anger.

Arthur sighed, knocking on the open door to announce his arrival. He had a towel around his shoulders, his face was red and sweaty, but at least his hair was blonde again, if damp.

Alfred refused to be the first to speak, his jaw locked. He stared resolutely at the serviette, which was now practically black with angry scrawling. Another sigh left the man at the door,

"I guess the cat's out of the bag now," he said, breath gusting tiredly with every word.

The stool clattered to the floor as Alfred stood, his entire body shaking with suppressed rage and hurt, "Is that really all you have to say for yourself?" He demanded, his voice cracking slightly.

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"_How about 'I'm sorry'?_"

"I have nothing to be sorry for!"

"You-! You _lied_ to me! About _everything_, for all I know! I don't even know if Arthur is your real name!" the American yelled, storming over to Arthur, severely infringing on his personal space.

"It is. The only thing I lied to you about is what I was doing in America," the Englishman said, trying to be reasonable about this. Alfred had no such qualms.

"And when you were leaving. And your tattoo. And what you do for a living. Really, Arthur? What _didn't_ you lie to me about?" He asked, completely furious at the other's denial.

"The kiss wasn't a lie!" Arthur screamed back, snapping.

"I wish it had been!" Alfred roared back, brushing past the shocked shock-rocker, "You're a liar. I wish I'd never met you. Sleeping with you was the worst mistake I have ever made."

"Alfred, I-"

"Save it. I'm out of here."

The Englishman's mind knew that he should run after him; apologise and explain until he turned blue or was forgiven. But his legs wouldn't move. His legs were on strike. His legs were, in no uncertain terms, telling him to for-fucking-get it.

Francis wandered over, nonchalantly leaning against the wall besides Arthur, looking after Alfred as he disappeared and whistled admiringly,

"Cher, I'm a little bit disappointed that I didn't get to ruin your relationship, but I am also very impressed at how well you managed to fuck it up without me."

"Go to hell, Francis."

~====o)o(o====~

**Three weeks later**

Arthur sighed, raising a tentative hand to knock on the terrifyingly ornate oak door in front of him. Lyon was a nice enough place, but did he have to go all this way for a bloody apology?

With a sigh, he let his hand fall to the wood; horrified at just how loudly the single knock echoed through the room behind it.

His anticipation was just reaching the point where it was about to make him revisit breakfast when the door swung open. Just inside was a small woman in slacks and a men's dress shirt. Her hair was cropped just below her ears. She looked, for the most part, boyish. She had a slim frame and not very much in the way of chest, but she had delicate features that really were very pretty.

She looked exactly as he remembered her.

"Arthur," she said with a cool incline of her head. The French purr of her accent was much thicker than Francis', and as it rolled his name off her tongue it sounded like, '_Aresur_'. She didn't seem in the least pleased to see him, not that he had really expected her to.

"Jeanne," he said, returning her nod with equal detachment, "May I have a word with you?"

~====o)0(o====~

"The United Kingdom of Republics – the UKR to its fans – has finally lifted its long held vow of secrecy, and the dubious duo have finally revealed their names to the world at large-"

"Matthew, for fuck's sake-"

"Francis Bonnefoy, classically trained French opera singer and pianist of twenty-eight, has cited professional reasons for the reveal; 'We [the UKR] feel that letting the fans know our names will bring us closer to them, make us less isolated. We want to interact with the people who listen to our music.'"

"Matt, _please_-"

"However, Arthur Kirkland, a cum laude graduate of the Royal School of Music and long-time nationally-competing gymnast, claims that the reasons are strictly personal; 'I'm tired of pole-dancing on a man I can barely stand. I'm tired of washing dye out of my hair. I'm tired of hating the music I used to love. But most of all, I'm tired of lying.'"

"_Mattie_-" the Canadian just raised his voice, speaking over his brother's whine,

"Not only that, but there seems to be some debate as to whether the band will be performing together for very much longer. While neither of the members were willing to comment on this, there has been a massive fan outcry, pleading with their idols not to split. The future of this notorious band hangs in the balance. Mr Kirkland's words cast a pall over the fans, and the question on everyone's lips; Will the United Kingdom of Republics remain united much longer?"

"Stop! Mattie, please! Stop!" Alfred begged, on the verge of getting down on his knees, "I don't care. I don't want to know! "

"You do care, Al. I know you do. "

"He lied. He lied to me about everything!" The American growled, still angry and still hurt.

"Alfred. Has it occurred to you, that maybe, just maybe, it was everyone else he was lying to, and not you? Just a thought. I mean, he _does_ leave at least four messages for you every day. I hate to defend the guy, but he's persistent."

"What if you found out that Katyusha was a member of the Russian mob? And that everything about her was a lie?"

"Silly Alfie," a thickly accented voice spoke in the American's ear, making him jump. What was odd was that she sounded a lot more serious and cold than she would usually have, "I'm Ukrainian," she smiled a little tearily, set down a tray of drinks, pecked Matthew on the cheek and bustled off back to the kitchen.

"Thank you, Yekat," Matt called after her, a sappy little smile on his face. His expression hardened as he turned back to his brother, "Alfred, I know you don't like Ivan, but taking it out on Yekaterina when she's been nothing but nice to you? That's low."

"You didn't have to try and set me up with her freakish communist brother!"

"Al, you're avoiding the subject," the Canadian pointed out blithely.

"He still thinks Bolshevism is a going concern!"

"You're still avoiding the subject, Alfred."

~====o)0(o====~

**Four Months Later**

Only a week after the single was released, it went platinum.

Which meant that Alfred had to listen to that stupid song blasting out of every single speaker and radio he passed, everywhere he went.

It was slowly driving him insane.

The first time he had heard Arthur's voice wafting from his car radio, he had almost swerved into oncoming traffic. He had then turned the damn thing off, sworn viciously and turned it back on.

The music the two had been making had been vastly different ever since they had split almost four months previously. Francis was singing Operatic pop music that was selling like hotcakes all over Europe. Arthur, on the other hand was trying his hand at something a little mellower. It was still rock, because that was the genre he favoured, but it was slower and sweeter. It was a love song.

Then the lyrics washed over him.

_Don't know if I discovered or if I was found; Maybe I bothered to look around; I'm in heaven with my feet on the ground; It's my own fault for kissing you._

It took him a few startled seconds to realised that Arthur was talking about the kiss they had shared outside his apartment building after their first date. When he came back to his senses he was being hooted at from all sides and it the chorus was playing.

_I made my way to the Fireman's arms; Let my guard down, gave in to your charms; Let you steal me away from my own reality; Proved my own idiocy; I want to go back to the Fireman's arms_.

With a strangled yell, he pulled into the fast lane and drove home, for once in his life breaking the speed limit. And every law known to God and man, but that's beside the point.

He burst into the flat only to find Katyusha singing along cheerily to the same song, only on a different radio station. Letting out another yell, he ran to his room and jammed his headphones into his ears, only to rip them out again because he still had a UKR CD in his Walkman.

When Matthew came home, all he heard was the sound of ripping paper. Curiously, he followed the sound to Alfred's bedroom. The sight that greeted him stopped him dead in his tracks.

There was Alfred, panting angrily in the middle of his room, his shoulders heaving. He was surrounded by fractured splinters of reflective rainbow plastic and shiny shredded paper.

His posters.

Matthew hadn't seen the walls of his brother's room bare in years. He had forgotten that beneath the dark, laminated pictures there was mural of the star-spangled banner that spanned the whole wall. The room seemed lighter, airier. It wasn't like Alfred at all.

The posters were ripped in half. The two figures had been ripped apart and then the images of Arthur had been shredded by angry fingers, and the American had a couple of pretty serious looking paper cuts that stained his fingers rust red.

"Al. . ." Matt trailed off, shaking his head slowly, "You only knew him for two weeks. . ."

"Shut _up_, Matthew!" his brother yelled hoarsely, hurling a piece of broken CD at him. It went wide, but the Canadian got the message, and he closed the door behind him.

The poster of King was the only one left.

~====o)0(o====~

It was a hot day. Alfred could take the heat, he actually loved heat. It made him think of baking land under the unforgiving sun, of desiccated grasslands and the Grand Canyon. That was his idea of beautiful.

But this wasn't the dry heat he loved. This was thick, sticky, muggy and humid. It was sweaty and disgusting. His glasses kept slipping down the sweat-slick bridge of his nose, and he pushed them up with the back of his hand as he worked on the wheels of the truck, tightening the nuts and checking the air pressure. His forearms and face were covered with black grease.

A scowl was stamped onto his face as he worked, trying desperately to think louder than the radio, which Gilbert insisted of turning up louder every time he asked for it to be turned down.

"_Wounds won't heal, time won't erase; I know why you need your space; I wish I'd never lied~!_" The albino belted out, heedless of how his accent sounded with the words. Alfred grit his teeth. His and Gilbert's egos were difficult things to accommodate in any one area, but when either one of them was being deliberately antagonistic (Like Gil was now. This happened a lot) it became down right impossible.

Of course the hit single Fireman's Arms, as can only be expected with a title like that, was a favourite around the New York Fire Department. In fact, the only member of staff who wouldn't be caught dead howling the lyrics or mangling the tune was the subject of the song himself. He hadn't answered when people asked what it was like to date Arthur Kirkland (he now regretted his little rants at work). And he hadn't bothered to correct anyone who assumed that the song was about a bar.

"_You gave me life when I couldn't breathe~_!"

The radio blasted into the thick air, sawing away at Alfred's very last nerve. His usual method of taking deep, calming breathes wasn't working.

"_When I was blind, you taught me to see~!"_

And neither was counting to ten. He tried counting to ten in Spanish, but it had been years since he'd had to say more than 'Please' and 'Thank you,' so he didn't get past four.

_He H_

"_Now the world is crashing down on me-"_

"I GET IT!" Alfred roared at the radio, his temper snapping. He strode over to the offending machinery and yanked the power cord from the wall so hard that the box tumbled to the floor and smashed, "I get it already! You're sorry!" he yelled at the broken plastic and circuitry as though Arthur could hear him.

What followed next couldn't really be called silence. Alfred's heavy breathing could be heard loud and clear. His chest was heaving. The thrum and shriek of traffic was ever-present and a lone cicada chirped and hissed in the fizzling heat.

"_Herr Gott im Himmel_," the albino whispered, wide-eyed, as an almost Satanic smirk crept across his face, "_You're_ the fireman?"

"Gilbert-"

"Those are _your_ arms he's singing about!"

"Beilschmidt-"

"He wrote you a gay love song, man!"

"Fuck you!"

"Dude, no! Fuck _him_!"

Alfred walked out.

~====o)0(o====~

**Two Months Later**

"Al. Al. Al. Alfred. _Alfred_. For the love of – Alfred! You can't stay in there forever, eh!" Matt yelled, pounding on the door. He was really worried about his brother. He'd been getting into fights at work, he was listless and moody. If any of his previous break-ups had been this bad, he would have shot the American just to put him out of his misery. And while that was highly illegal and probably something he would never do unless Alfred insulted the Montreal Canadiens (the Canadiens were his _team_) it could probably be deemed a mercy killing in these circumstances.

In the hype of pre-album release, Fireman's Arms had been pouring almost non-stop from every functioning speaker (and quite a few that weren't) all across the North Americas and large parts of English-speaking Europe.

"What?" an irate America asked, flinging the door open. A door that still had a guilty poster stuck to it.

"Alfred, he's sorry."

"Fuck! Matt-"

He stopped dead when he looked at what was in his brother's hands. It was small and square, shiny plastic. His eyes flicked briefly over the kneeling Englishman on the cover – literally, on his knees, hands clasped together – and settled on the bold black words that adorned the cover. Firstly, there was;

Arthur Kirkland

Written in a very small, curly font. But underneath that in huge, print letters was;

ALFRED, I'M SORRY

~====o)0(o====~

**100****th**** REVIEWER GETS A ONE SHOT!**

**Not that we aren't on 95 already. What the hell is wrong with you people?  
>Not that I'm complaining. . .<strong>


	7. Ballroom Finish

**Dear nameless reviewer, whom I am sorely tempted to call Canada, you have won yourself a one-shot. Absolutely anything you like. Just leave the details in a review, or do a little internet stalkage to find my email address – it shouldn't be that hard – and I should have your story up within a day or two.**

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**Reviews. Holy. Fuck. Reviews. I love you all, sorry for the late update.**

Alfred turned the CD case over and over in his calloused fingers, taking in the list of songs at the back. Titles such as Chemical Catastrophe, Saving Superman, and the infamous Fireman's Arms jumped out at him. His eyes roamed over the figure of Arthur on the plain, beige background. He was wearing plain slacks and a dress shirt, the attire he seemed to favour when not prancing about half-naked surrounded by dry-ice and hordes of screaming fans (of which only about twenty per cent were actually gay; the rest just wanted to see two guys fuck). The look on his face was pleading. Finally, Alfred spoke.

"You've got to be shitting me." He waved the disk incredulously at Matthew, "This? This is not how you apologise to someone."

"And now I know you're crazy. What's more romantic than a song? Al, if Arthur wrote that song for me, my jeans would be around my knees faster than you can say 'change in sexual preference'."

"Matt, I don't care about how romantic this is. I don't care about the grand gestures or the thought and the effort he put into doing this. It's sweet of him, but I honestly don't care. What I want is a straightforward, honest apology said in person and to my face. After that, yeah, maybe I'll look into the fact that he produced an entire album just to get my attention," he handed the CD case back to Matthew, "but not before."

"You're really taking this 'he lied to me' thing a bit far, don't you think?" the Canadian asked, looking sceptically over his glasses at his brother. A certain amount of anger was feasible, but this was getting beyond ridiculous, "Statistically speaking, there is a quotient of lying in every single relationship."

"And you know that I couldn't give two shits about statistics if I tried. That's why you're an actuary, and I'm not. You know how I hate lying. And yeah, I could probably have dealt with it and moved on, but that was before he slept with me. At that point, he should have known that I wouldn't have told anyone who he was. It hurts that he could stick his dick up my ass-"

"Alfred. That is way more than I _ever_ needed to know."

"Sorry, but he didn't seem to feel guilty about it. I feel a little violated."

"Well, you didn't really give him a chance to explain, did you?" Matt folded his arms over his chest, his face set in an expression of such parental disapproval that it made his brother flush red and stutter defensively,

"I- Of course I- I can't believe you- un-heroic- Would never Always! I-"

"Blah, blah, hamburgers, heroism, hamburgers, cola, blah," Matthew said dismissively, "You're being an ass. And an idiot, and bloody pig-headed with it. The man is on his _knees_," here he waved the plastic square violently under his brother's nose, "_begging_ you to forgive him and you want a _proper_ apology? Pull your head out of your ass, eh!"

"He was being a dick-"

"And now you're being an even bigger dick."

"Matthew, for fuck's sake, what do you want from me?" The American threw his hands in the air exasperatedly. Now Matt was being a dick, too. Why was everyone upset all of a sudden?

"I want you to apologise! You're being so stupid about this whole thing, Alfred. How would you have reacted if you'd met a rock star in a café instead of Arthur? You'd have thrown a fucking fit. Is it so bad that he wanted you to like him for _himself_ and no who he _pretends_ to be?" The irritation he had felt at his brother's moping had reached critical mass, and the Canadian's voice was slowly rising in volume.

"You don't even _like_ Arthur! Jesus, what's gotten into you? I'm not going to ap-" Alfred began huffily, but was stopped by Matthew's next words, which had reached a volume that meant that the Canadian was yelling, and subsequent to that, the world as we know it would end.

"_Apologise or move out!_"

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Alfred yelled back, but unlike his brother, he hadn't passed the point of no return. Al was trying to cover the fact that his voice was shaking with volume, "Fine, I'll send him an email!"

"No. What I want is for you to give him a _straightforward_, _honest_ apology said _in person_ and _to his face_. After that, yeah, you'll look into the fact that he produced an entire album just to tell you he was sorry. You're acting like a child, Alfred, and it's affecting Yekat and I as well. You're moody and angry and either you deal with this or you move out, because I can't handle it anymore," He'd stopped shouting; Matthew's outbursts never lasted more than a sentence or two, but those sentences made all the difference. Alfred sagged – he hated being in the wrong, and he hated being put in his place like a child – and he looked pleadingly at his brother,

"Mattie, be reasonable; he's in London. How am I supposed to apologise face to face when he's on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean?"

"Well, for starters, you're going to need a tuxedo."

"_What_?"

~====o)0(o====~

**Two Weeks Later**

Arthur sipped at his champagne, his mind far from the glittering lights and pleasant laughter of this Parisian ballroom. There were plenty of people to talk to, and living with Francis meant that his French was conversationally up to par, but he had no desire to talk to the Frenchman's glitterati friends, or the A-list starlets his fiancé had brought with her. It was a lovely engagement party, to be sure, but they weren't really the Englishman's sort of people, and he wasn't really in the mood to exchange empty pleasantries. But when one attends the engagement party of a rock star cum pop-idol and the film director that even the most dour of critics call a revolutionary, it can only be expected that mindless chit-chat should be made with the upper echelons of The Beautiful People, of whom Francis and Jeanne were presently king and queen.

It was so very bloody stupid to be so very blood hung up on someone so very bloody-minded whom he'd met for two fucking weeks, six fucking months ago. If he'd known that Alfred would take it so badly he would have told him from the get go. Or would he have? He didn't know.

"Artie?" the champagne flute shattered as it hit the hardwood floor. Arthur Kirkland had never set much store by 'Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear,' and he wasn't a big believer in fate, so hearing that familiar American accent _right behind him_ was about as expected as the Spanish Inquisition.

Pivoting slowly on his heels, the Englishman gawped, his careful, gentleman's persona falling away. Alfred was standing there, his cheeks pink with embarrassment as he tugged at the crisp white collar of his dress-shirt, his bow-tie was crooked.

For all that Arthur though thought that Alfred looked smashing in his street clothes, dashing in his uniform and – from what he could remember – gorgeous naked, it was a fairly surreal experience to see him in a suit. He looked good in a suit. The thick black cotton was fitted exactly over his broad shoulders and the wide lapels framed his neck and emphasised his chest. The sheen of new fabric glinted in the light of the chandeliers and the starkness of black and white was a sharp contrast to the glow of his skin and bright, live blue of his clear eyes and the ripe gold of his hair. It was even a little sweet that his cowlick bore signs of being brushed down and having sprung right back up again. Arthur wondered why he had objected when the American had sat down at his table in that tiny New York café.

Alfred's brow furrowed. Why wasn't he saying anything? It was more than a little unnerving.

"Arthur, I- I came to say," He swallowed thickly, this was harder than it was supposed to be, "I just- I'm sorry. I was being an ass -"

"You mean I went through all of that effort for nothing?" the Englishman was shocked into speaking. All the effort he had gone through to get the record label to agree, all the kissing up he'd had to do.

"You have a platinum single and 50 million albums sold in the US alone?" Alfred tried, smiling nervously. Shit, this had been such a huge mistake, even if his stomach was summersaulting at the sight of the singer.

"You really are an arse!" But to Alfred's surprise, he didn't look grumpy, he was smiling. Fuck that, he was laughing. It was wonderful, and he couldn't help laughing along.

"You're not mad at me?" the American asked incredulously. It was hard to believe that that was all it took for all to be forgiven.

"Of course I'm bloody mad at you, you tosser! You left me hanging for six fucking months! But," his laughter faded a little though he was still smiling a little shyly, "I'm willing to forget, if you'll help me?"

"How about I help you remember?" Alfred tried, pulling Arthur into a slow dance, revolving on the spot to the slow song the band was playing before it was abruptly cut off,

"I would like to dedicate to this song to that friend I love to hate, and his special friend, without whom none of this would have either been necessary or possible." The band started up again, and the song was still sweet and slow, but it was only about a thousand times more romantic. Arthur screwed up his face, trying to decide between rage and laughter, settling on a pleasant mixture of the two. Over the cheering and laughter he yelled at the blonde man on stage,

"Francis_, je te baise d__é__teste_!" Even if he couldn't keep the smile off his face.

"_J'adore, aussi, ma cher_," the Frenchman cooed, moving off stage and taking Jeanne's hand, twirling her into a dance as well.

"You speak French?" Alfred sounded impressed, he should let Arthur and Matthew chat in French for a bit, the Canadian would soon warm up the Englishman.

"Did you not notice that every single album the UKR ever produced was remade in French?" the green-eyed man asked, a little surprised; they were the biggest seller of French music since Celine Dion, "And you call yourself a fan."

"It never really clicked, though. Besides, it was Pres- Francis singing most of the time on the French albums," he wasn't quite ready to admit that he knew the French songs as well as he did the English ones.

"Yeah, much as I hate to admit it, he had a fantastic voice," Arthur smiled nostalgically, "Even if it mangles Queen's. Speaking of Francis," he narrowed his eyes, "How the bloody hell did you get in here? It's invite only."

"It turns out that Mattie has a whole lot of very important people on speed-dial," Alfred said, still a little bemused. He had always thought that Matt worked for an insurance company, but it turned out that he was a freelance actuary, so wherever statistics were important, Matthew would work. Like, say, in the music industry, working out the likelihood of a song or artist being popular, or predicting the next big trend, "He 'called in a few favours,' made me buy a tux and drove me to the airport. I'm travelling on some kind of diplomatic visa and an emergency passport. It's kind of weird, actually. I think his girlfriend made him do it; he's usually such a pushover."

"Good God, that's terrifying," Arthur said thoughtfully, wondering if he could pick up a phone and bend the law like that. Probably not, actually.

"You should have seen him on the phone to the French embassy; he looked so clam, but I've never heard him sound so angry. Moreover, I didn't know anyone could speak French that fast. I thought he'd fried his motherboard."

It was good to make Arthur laugh again.

~====o)0(o====~

**Six Months Later**

"People want to interview us," Alfred called, covering the mouthpiece of the phone.

"_Everyone_ wants to interview us, Alfred, we're a novelty," Arthur called back from the living room of their shared apartment, pushing his reading glasses back up his nose – he wasn't so embarrassed about wearing them around the house once his boyfriend had pointed out that he had to wear spectacles all the time – and returning to his book.

"_Artie_. People _magazine_ wants to interview us, yay or nay?" the American drew out his name into a whine.

"Oh, certainly, why not? Give the plebs a little goss." Arthur drawled in his best, high-society voice.

"Artie," Alfred cautioned, "I was a pleb once, too you know, and so were you."

"Alright, fine," the singer straightened the newspaper – the were on the front page of the Society Times for the third time that week. He did wish that Alfred would stop kissing him in public. Well. Sort of, "Let's give the entire bloody proletariat an in-depth look at our life together, which really is _none of their fucking business to begin with_-" he was stopped as his American lover walked into the room and draped himself bodily over the back of his chair.

"You signed yourself up for this," Alfred sighed, running his fingers through Arthur's artistically messy blonde hair, raking his nails lightly across his scalp until the Brit was practically purring.

"I signed myself up to sing and make music, which is not the same thing."

"Bullshit."

Arthur laughed, "Arsehole," he muttered good-naturedly, depositing a sweet kiss to the American's lips, "But someone has to call me on it."

~====o)0(o====~

**There you have it folks. That is the anticlimactic end of this here story. I know it's rather half-arsed, but I honestly didn't think this far ahead, and I hope I can be forgiven for thinking better of the clichéd, I love you + I'm sorry sex. **

**Thank you very much for reading.**

**RutheLa**

**Ps. Sonata's update schedule shall resume as per normal, updates alternating between it and the as yet unpublished Franada; "A Picture's Worth".**


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